


hey old friends

by sadsparties



Category: The Terror (TV 2018)
Genre: Birthday Presents, Farewells, Friendship, Gen, Reverse Chronology
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-16
Updated: 2020-08-16
Packaged: 2021-03-05 19:48:54
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,515
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25930879
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sadsparties/pseuds/sadsparties
Summary: Parry's boys, through the years.
Relationships: Captain Francis Crozier & Sir James Clark Ross, Captain Francis Crozier & Sir James Clark Ross & Edward Bird
Comments: 16
Kudos: 30





	hey old friends

**Author's Note:**

> happy 224th birthday to the one, the only, frmc!  
> title and concept are inspired by stephen sondheim's [merrily we roll along](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=LoRfGx5hgnk)

v.

Francis sits at the edge of the tent, nothing but a flap of animal hide swaying in the wind to conceal him, and almost loses his resolve.

It shouldn’t have surprised him. Who else would they send but their brightest? If he returns bearing tragedy, he will not be blamed, then the Navy can say: “We have done our best.”

His old friend looks well, even for a man sledging for days. He has the beginnings of a full beard, his cheeks are gaunt, and his eyes— 

Francis couldn’t look at his eyes. It would have been too much, and James would have known, as he’d always known when he was being looked at. 

Francis sets down the spear in his hand and pulls the hood lower on his head. In the tent, James begs for his last words.

“Tell them I was dying,” he’d said. “Tell them not to follow. They cannot follow.”

The buttons clink softly as they’re placed on his portrait. James takes them and rolls them in his glove, over and over, until the brass must warm from the friction. He tucks them inside his furs, near his heart, and asks no more questions.

“What now, Sir James?” the man with him says.

Francis has walked far enough to be undetected, but James’s voice carries in the wind. Like a widow’s hand, it grasps at his sleeve and tugs, back, back.

“We go back,” James says. “Captain Bird is waiting.”

iv.

“If I were you, old boy, I’d cheer up. Another voyage just as you return from leave. I’d trade places with you if I can.”

Edward waves his glass with such abandon that his claret almost spills on his glove. Kidskin leather and newly purchased. Despite his moping, half-pay agrees with him.

“It’s all the fault of that Fitzjames fellow,” Francis says. “Everyone knows you were meant to captain  _ Erebus  _ until the last minute.”

“There’s nothing for it now,” James says as he follows them to the balcony. Anne is miraculously absent from his side. Francis thinks that might be on purpose.

“This is Frank’s night, and thus we must celebrate for him even if he’s not in the mood for it.” 

James playfully digs at his side, and Francis skirts away. A series of cusses ring in the air as his wine splashes on Edward’s front.

They dab napkins on his uniform, three captains trying to be stewards, until Edward sighs and declares himself invalid for the rest of the night.

“I’ll take you home,” Francis offers, all too eagerly. “It’s the right thing to do.”

“Now, Frank dear—” 

“Certainly not, Francis.” 

Edward finishes the rest of his claret and bothers a nearby servant to fetch his coat. 

“James is right; you should be celebrating. I wouldn’t let such a thing ruin your night—” he gestures to his uniform—“though this one certainly is.” He meets Francis’s eye and grins. “If it makes you feel any better, I’ll be sure to send you the bill.”

“Now you’re being silly,” James says. “I’ll foot the bill. This is my fault anyway.”

Edward huffs, like a point has been proven. “You see, Francis? Even  _ the _ Sir James is willing to pick up after you. I’d trade places with you twice over now.”

Edward’s smile doesn’t falter as he cites increasingly absurd reasons for wanting to take Francis’s place. The sublime food, fine weather, Sir John Franklin’s conversation. 

Francis laughs so hard, he starts wheezing. He leans his forehead on James’s shoulder and breathes, deep. He doesn’t want this night to end.

iii.

“I don’t understand,” Francis says as he looks at the watch, James’s watch. “I already have one.”

He pats his stomach, where the trusted thing has been ticking for the past fifteen years. James sighs and rolls his eyes. 

“It doesn’t mean you can’t have another, and about time too.”

James presses the watch to his palm. Silver and freshly polished, with an enamel picture at the face. The metal is warm from James’s touch.

“I promise to give you something better in Hobart, but presently this will do.” James holds him by the shoulders and smiles, hearty and fond. “The happiest of birthdays, old boy.”

“Well, don’t just stand there. Open it,” Edward says from the brazier. 

Francis obeys and sees the inscription at the back of the face, done so finely it could only have been made by a caring hand.

‘Presented to Commander F.R.M. Crozier, R.N. by Captain James Clark Ross, R.N. and Lieutenant E. J. Bird, R.N. as a mark of affection,’ it read. Underneath was an insignia, some animal bust.

“Do you see the phoenix?” Edward asks as he approaches. “I laboured over that for days.”

Francis grins, teasing. “A phoenix, you say? Looks more like a griffin to me.”

Edward’s sputtering is drowned out by James’s roaring laughter. “Oh, you brute! Give it here, you don’t deserve it!”

Francis ducks away as Edward reaches for the watch. A chase ensues in the Great Cabin, two fully grown men prowling around the table like siblings with a vengeance.

“Now, now, gentlemen!” James tries for order, but his shoulders are shaking. “We are officers!” 

Later, when decorum and age have caught up with them, Francis tucks the gift inside his uniform. “Thank you,” he says. He feels the hand of the watch moving, right beside his heart. “I shall keep it with me always.”

ii.

Dear Francis,

I am sorry to have missed you while we were both in the mainland. I will send this letter to Lisbon and hope, by some miracle, that it will reach your quarters.

The  _ Galatea  _ is being refitted again, and we have found ourselves stuck in the Azores until the captain is happy with her new furnishings. It will be some months more, and so I must ask for your prayers, old friend, that I may have the constitution and fortitude to endure this godforsaken island with its abominable weather.

Yes, yes, I know I mustn't complain. It is warm, after all.

Very few of the British weeklies ever end up in Ponta Delgada, but when they do, the porters know to exchange it with me for coin. I have developed quite the reputation for being well-read, which, as you know, is false. I don’t really have much of a choice, because aside from obsessing over any news of our dear friend’s return, there is not much else to do.

And he  will return, Francis. I am sure of it. From your last letter, it seemed that you were near surrender in your hoping. I implore you to change your mind. He promised, did he not?

Most of our officers have taken rooms in the Vila Nova. It is no grand hotel, but there are fruits with our breakfast everyday, and the lone manservant is a diligent sort. I will be staying here likely until the end of the year and hope to get a few letters to the mainland through friendly ships.

Well wishes to you, Francis, and write your Old Bird a note for his worrying.

Yours sincerely,

Edward Joseph Bird 

i.

Francis closes his eyes, nothing but the top yard and empty air beneath his feet, and it almost feels as if he’s the only person in the world.

The breeze is pleasantly cold against his face. Francis has read that it will be much colder where they are headed, cold enough to lose fingers, but he isn’t afraid.

“Hey,” someone hollers. “Mr. Crozier, was it?”

Francis peers below to see a young man waving at him from the deck. A middie just like him, with messy, black hair blowing in the wind. 

“I’m James Ross,” he says when Francis meets him at level. “Yes,  _ that  _ Ross, if you were going to ask.”

Francis wasn’t, though James does ask if he can call him ‘Frank’. Francis thinks on it briefly and discovers that he doesn’t mind it one bit. They shake hands, and Francis feels the warmth of James’s fingers through his gloves. 

Francis has only ever read about the Arctic, and James is all too eager to tell him everything he knows. He speaks of mountains of ice as tall as ships, of snow as red as blood. He recalls the mysterious people they met, so isolated from the world that they mistook other humans as trees.

James’s deep, dark eyes pin Francis in place and Francis feels the deck shifting. He senses the moment quivering on the brink of something grand and large, like a tunnel of trees breaking into a fresh morning. In his gut, something aches. He breathes in deep. 

He stares up at  _ Fury’s _ mast, where he’d been just minutes before. The pole is tall against the grey sky. What a sad, lonely place, he thinks.

“So do you want to come?” James says. “We’ve got a boat ready to go.”

Francis furrows his brow. “Go where?”

“To  _ Hecla _ with the other middies.” James grabs him by the shoulders and pushes him along. “Bird’s waiting.” 

  
  
  


**Author's Note:**

> [bird and ross](https://upload.wikimedia.org/wikipedia/commons/f/fb/The_Arctic_Council_planning_a_search_for_Sir_John_Franklin_by_Stephen_Pearce.jpg) (3rd and 4th from the left)


End file.
